strained for the notes until suddenly he had it—Mussorgsky, of course, Pictures at an Exhibition , his father’s favourite, and suddenly he was back in the apartment on Moskovsky Prospekt, his father leaning intently over the gramophone, beating time with an outstretched finger. ‘You hear them, Mikhail? Can you see them in your mind? Two Jews, Samuel and Schmuÿle. One is rich and the other is poor. Can you tell which is which?’
He was so engrossed by this memory that it was a moment before he registered the presence of someone else in the gardens, a dark shadow gliding silently to his side.
‘Hello, Mikhail,’ the figure murmured, taking a seat beside him.
‘We have things to resolve,’ Mikhail said. ‘Let me tell you how it will be.’ He spoke for several minutes, relishing the moment, punctuating his words with gestures with his cigar, its tip glowing in the darkness. When he finished he waited for a reply.
There was silence for a long moment, and then the other said, ‘No, Mikhail. This is how it will be.’ He felt an arm embrace him, and he made to pull away, offended by this familiarity. Then he froze as his eye caught the gleam of a blade. With some incredulity he felt its tip press hard against his breast, then a sharp pain as it pierced his fine cashmere sweater and entered his chest, once, twice, three times. The cigar dropped from his fingers and he heard a voice in his head say, ‘Yes, Papa, of course I know which is the rich one.’
Brock jerked awake with the phone ringing. He was sprawled across the sofa, the table lamp still burning, the second glass—or was it the third?—of medicinal hot whisky toddy half full at his elbow.
‘You all right, sir?’ the duty officer responded to his hoarse gurgle.
No, he wasn’t all right. He’d been feeling rough all day and was beginning to wonder if it might be swine flu—he’d neglected to have his shot, despite Suzanne’s urging. He sat up, trying to clear his head. The place looked a mess, papers, books, CD cases, shoes, cushions all over the place. He looked around hopelessly for a pen and paper. At times like this he told himself that he needed more of Suzanne’s disciplined presence in his life.
‘Chelsea, sir. Cunningham Place. Fatality.’
‘Yes, yes, so what?’
‘You know about it?’
‘’Course I bloody know about it. Nancy Haynes. What is this?’
‘Not Nancy Haynes, sir. Mikhail Moszynski. Fatal stabbing. Called in forty minutes ago. Kensington and Chelsea BOCU are asking for you.’
‘Oh . . . right.’ A calm descended on him and he found a pen next to the whisky glass. ‘Get a car out here to pick me up, will you? Tell me again.’
Before he got to his feet to take a shower, Brock speed-dialled Kathy’s mobile. It took a while for her to answer—she was in a cinema with her friend Nicole, she explained, a late-night screening of Pedro Almodovar’s latest. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said.
The patrol car dropped Brock by the entrance to the gardens in Cunningham Place and he was immediately struck by the scene, the bright glow among the trees in the centre of the garden, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, windows in the surrounding buildings lit up with figures staring down at the activity, and the throb of a helicopter moving slowly overhead. He gave his name and walked in along a route defined by tapes towards the spot where lights and screens were being set up. At the centre of the activity the figure of a man sat slumped on the bench. At first glance he looked like an actor on a bright stage, pausing in the middle of his performance, but then the dark stain across his chest and left leg brought the reality home.
A detective Brock recognised from the borough command came to his side and they shook hands. ‘Hello again,’ the man said. ‘So this is Mikhail Moszynski.’
The way he said it made Brock glance at him. ‘Should I know him?’
‘Russian, he married Shaka Gibbons a couple of
He was so engrossed by this memory that it was a moment before he registered the presence of someone else in the gardens, a dark shadow gliding silently to his side.
‘Hello, Mikhail,’ the figure murmured, taking a seat beside him.
‘We have things to resolve,’ Mikhail said. ‘Let me tell you how it will be.’ He spoke for several minutes, relishing the moment, punctuating his words with gestures with his cigar, its tip glowing in the darkness. When he finished he waited for a reply.
There was silence for a long moment, and then the other said, ‘No, Mikhail. This is how it will be.’ He felt an arm embrace him, and he made to pull away, offended by this familiarity. Then he froze as his eye caught the gleam of a blade. With some incredulity he felt its tip press hard against his breast, then a sharp pain as it pierced his fine cashmere sweater and entered his chest, once, twice, three times. The cigar dropped from his fingers and he heard a voice in his head say, ‘Yes, Papa, of course I know which is the rich one.’
Brock jerked awake with the phone ringing. He was sprawled across the sofa, the table lamp still burning, the second glass—or was it the third?—of medicinal hot whisky toddy half full at his elbow.
‘You all right, sir?’ the duty officer responded to his hoarse gurgle.
No, he wasn’t all right. He’d been feeling rough all day and was beginning to wonder if it might be swine flu—he’d neglected to have his shot, despite Suzanne’s urging. He sat up, trying to clear his head. The place looked a mess, papers, books, CD cases, shoes, cushions all over the place. He looked around hopelessly for a pen and paper. At times like this he told himself that he needed more of Suzanne’s disciplined presence in his life.
‘Chelsea, sir. Cunningham Place. Fatality.’
‘Yes, yes, so what?’
‘You know about it?’
‘’Course I bloody know about it. Nancy Haynes. What is this?’
‘Not Nancy Haynes, sir. Mikhail Moszynski. Fatal stabbing. Called in forty minutes ago. Kensington and Chelsea BOCU are asking for you.’
‘Oh . . . right.’ A calm descended on him and he found a pen next to the whisky glass. ‘Get a car out here to pick me up, will you? Tell me again.’
Before he got to his feet to take a shower, Brock speed-dialled Kathy’s mobile. It took a while for her to answer—she was in a cinema with her friend Nicole, she explained, a late-night screening of Pedro Almodovar’s latest. ‘I’m on my way,’ she said.
The patrol car dropped Brock by the entrance to the gardens in Cunningham Place and he was immediately struck by the scene, the bright glow among the trees in the centre of the garden, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, windows in the surrounding buildings lit up with figures staring down at the activity, and the throb of a helicopter moving slowly overhead. He gave his name and walked in along a route defined by tapes towards the spot where lights and screens were being set up. At the centre of the activity the figure of a man sat slumped on the bench. At first glance he looked like an actor on a bright stage, pausing in the middle of his performance, but then the dark stain across his chest and left leg brought the reality home.
A detective Brock recognised from the borough command came to his side and they shook hands. ‘Hello again,’ the man said. ‘So this is Mikhail Moszynski.’
The way he said it made Brock glance at him. ‘Should I know him?’
‘Russian, he married Shaka Gibbons a couple of
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